It's the last day of 2010, and I was going to resolve not to make New Year's Resolutions, but that would have resulted in a space-time continuum paradox that might have created an alternate timeline where William Shatner was never Captain Kirk.* So I didn't do that.
But I did come up with some resolutions that might work for me.
Learn to speak dolphin. This might be more difficult that it might at first seem, seeing as how there aren't a lot of dolphins off the LA coast, and I live in Pasadena anyway, about 25 miles inland. It might be better to learn parrot.
Take the stairs less. The elevator in my building should be fixed by the time I get back. Let's hope.
Either go to an all-soda diet or eliminate soda entirely. My long-time friends know that I've been 'giving up soda' for years now, just like one of my friends has been quitting smoking every time he lights up. So I'm either gonna quit the junk entirely or abandon the pretense of drinking anything else. No middle ground.
Get a monkey butler. Not a chimp that will tear my face off when he gets old, a monkey. With a prehensile tail. And without any tendencies towards evil. It wouldn't hurt if he could mix a good milkshake.
Earn my flying carpet license. It would be much easier to get around the city on a flying carpet rather than in a car.
Go to a psychic. I've always wanted to do this but just can't part with the cash for such an obvious charade. I need to look on it as an entertainment expense.
Climb a tree. Adults don't do enough of that.
Solve a Rubik's cube. Back in high school a friend of mine could do it in less than a minute, and my younger niece can do it in less than two minutes.
Go to Ireland and capture a leprechaun. I used to just want to visit the land of my forefathers, but how hard is it to get to Ireland these days? With their depressed economy they're practically paying you to come over. But to capture a leprechaun... there's the challenge.
Get a job as one of those flippy-sign guys. You know, the ones trying to get you to rent an apartment or come into the tax preparer's office? There's a training class for them in Studio City, and I want to learn.
* if you've seen the latest Star Trek movie you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, just go with the flow.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Peanut Butter Baron
I have friends in Australia. They live there, I mean, not just visiting. Family friends who emigrated years ago and are now citizens. They love their adopted country and with good reason, I've been to Australia and it's a pretty cool place. But there's one thing...
They can't get peanut butter candy there. The kids who were born here in America miss the bad-for-you-but-oh-so-good empty calories that is a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, for example. I've sent them care packages before, I need to send another one.
My sister hosted a German exchange student last year, Lara, who could eat her weight in peanut butter if you let her. In an interesting coincidence, she can't get peanut butter in Germany, or Reese's Peanut Butter cups either. So my sister has sent her the big-ass Costco jars of PB to brighten the dreary Teutonic winter.
But the fact that people in Australia and Germany can't get simple junk food we take for granted here seems like it might be a business opportunity. There has to be a bigger market than one former exchange student in Germany and four adults in Australia, there's got to be all kinds of expats and visitors and what have you all across this globe just drooling for the chance to get their chocolate into some peanut butter that they can't find in their own country.
And I could be the guy to give it to them. The Tony Montana* of peanut butter, if you will. Or the Nino Brown**, if you prefer. I could be the Godfather of peanut butter product imports, spreading out my creamy favors like Jif on white bread. I would be - literally - the candy man.
I'd build my empire like Andrew Carnegie, one crushed soul at a time, until I amassed wealth and power far outstripping that of small third-world nations. And as I gained more and more money and influence I'd realize how terribly shallow and unfulfilling my ambitions had been, and I would end up alone and friendless in an echoing mansion built with the profits from my peanut butter empire. My last words would be 'green machine' mumbled through lips almost plastered shut with peanut butter.
Yeah... I got it all planned out. First you get the peanut butter, then you get the power, then you get the women...
* from Scarface, the one with Al Pacino not the one with Paul Muni
** from New Jack City, with Wesley Snipes, who is in prison for tax evasion now
They can't get peanut butter candy there. The kids who were born here in America miss the bad-for-you-but-oh-so-good empty calories that is a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, for example. I've sent them care packages before, I need to send another one.
My sister hosted a German exchange student last year, Lara, who could eat her weight in peanut butter if you let her. In an interesting coincidence, she can't get peanut butter in Germany, or Reese's Peanut Butter cups either. So my sister has sent her the big-ass Costco jars of PB to brighten the dreary Teutonic winter.
But the fact that people in Australia and Germany can't get simple junk food we take for granted here seems like it might be a business opportunity. There has to be a bigger market than one former exchange student in Germany and four adults in Australia, there's got to be all kinds of expats and visitors and what have you all across this globe just drooling for the chance to get their chocolate into some peanut butter that they can't find in their own country.
And I could be the guy to give it to them. The Tony Montana* of peanut butter, if you will. Or the Nino Brown**, if you prefer. I could be the Godfather of peanut butter product imports, spreading out my creamy favors like Jif on white bread. I would be - literally - the candy man.
I'd build my empire like Andrew Carnegie, one crushed soul at a time, until I amassed wealth and power far outstripping that of small third-world nations. And as I gained more and more money and influence I'd realize how terribly shallow and unfulfilling my ambitions had been, and I would end up alone and friendless in an echoing mansion built with the profits from my peanut butter empire. My last words would be 'green machine' mumbled through lips almost plastered shut with peanut butter.
Yeah... I got it all planned out. First you get the peanut butter, then you get the power, then you get the women...
* from Scarface, the one with Al Pacino not the one with Paul Muni
** from New Jack City, with Wesley Snipes, who is in prison for tax evasion now
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Stooges Gene
I went to Ikea with my sister and brother-in-law yesterday. That is apropos of nothing, except the fact that Ikea is in Round Rock, which is over an hour away. We took my nephew as well, who is a solid two-and-a-half years old and loving every moment of it. So in addition to the time we spent in Ikea, I had several hours of driving time to observe him and his reactions to things.
I know I'm not treading new ground here, but little boys are very different from little girls.
My nephew has The Stooges Gene, which is that genetic quirk in boys that lets them find the hilarity in noisy bodily functions. Boogers were a favorite while we were in Ikea, but on the trip back he encountered the adult male's ability to burp on command. Since he's two years old he wanted me and my brother-in-law to burp over and over and over again, which we did, and he squealed with delight each and every time.
My sister endured silently, then called one of her friends to chat while we echoed the truck cab with belches.
I have two nieces as well, both of them substantially older than my nephew, and both of them gifted with wickedly funny senses of humor. Neither of them, however, would have found fifteen minutes of burping nearly as funny as my nephew did, not even when they were that little. I can tell you that not once did either of them laugh uncontrollably at a burp, then demand that I burp over and over and over again. I would have if they wanted me to, but it just never came up. It's a guy thing, chicks just don't understand.
Burps are funny. Intrinsically funny, axiomatically funny. If a dying man interrupted his last words for a burp, guys would laugh, that's just the way it is. Farts are funny too, even if you're the victim of a particularly rank one. People getting slapped in the face is funny, and getting knocked in the head with a big board is funny, and getting poked in the eyes is funny, or jabbed in the stomach or pinched in the nipples by lobster claws or having a sledge hammer dropped on your foot... the list goes on and on and on, anything The Three Stooges did is funny. Always. And getting hit in the nuts is always funny too, as long as it happens to someone else.
The Stooges Gene. It's only a matter of time before modern science isolates it within the human genome. It's probably in the same region as the Playing With Fireworks gene and the Hey Watch This gene. Once the Stooges gene is isolated we can get you ladies gene therapy so you can share in the glory that is two grown men burping on command for a two-and-a-half year old.
I know I'm not treading new ground here, but little boys are very different from little girls.
My nephew has The Stooges Gene, which is that genetic quirk in boys that lets them find the hilarity in noisy bodily functions. Boogers were a favorite while we were in Ikea, but on the trip back he encountered the adult male's ability to burp on command. Since he's two years old he wanted me and my brother-in-law to burp over and over and over again, which we did, and he squealed with delight each and every time.
My sister endured silently, then called one of her friends to chat while we echoed the truck cab with belches.
I have two nieces as well, both of them substantially older than my nephew, and both of them gifted with wickedly funny senses of humor. Neither of them, however, would have found fifteen minutes of burping nearly as funny as my nephew did, not even when they were that little. I can tell you that not once did either of them laugh uncontrollably at a burp, then demand that I burp over and over and over again. I would have if they wanted me to, but it just never came up. It's a guy thing, chicks just don't understand.
Burps are funny. Intrinsically funny, axiomatically funny. If a dying man interrupted his last words for a burp, guys would laugh, that's just the way it is. Farts are funny too, even if you're the victim of a particularly rank one. People getting slapped in the face is funny, and getting knocked in the head with a big board is funny, and getting poked in the eyes is funny, or jabbed in the stomach or pinched in the nipples by lobster claws or having a sledge hammer dropped on your foot... the list goes on and on and on, anything The Three Stooges did is funny. Always. And getting hit in the nuts is always funny too, as long as it happens to someone else.
The Stooges Gene. It's only a matter of time before modern science isolates it within the human genome. It's probably in the same region as the Playing With Fireworks gene and the Hey Watch This gene. Once the Stooges gene is isolated we can get you ladies gene therapy so you can share in the glory that is two grown men burping on command for a two-and-a-half year old.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Boots On The Ground
I took a walk through my old neighborhood today. This is the place where grew up, from elementary school through post-college, streets that have years worth of my tennis shoe rubber on them, asphalt soaked in the blood of my knees and elbows, streets I don't even know the names of yet that I can navigate in my sleep. I know the area, is what I'm saying.
But walking it, the way I used to, following the same route I trudged to high school, traversing the same alleys and back ways that took me to my first adult job as a waiter, things started coming back to me. Vignettes I hadn't thought of in years came back fresh as the day they happened, moments in time that helped form who I am today came bubbling up, demanding admission to my conscious mind.
There was the house where Andrew had been standing outside, waiting for a kid like me to ride by on his bike. 'Mummy, I found a new playmate,' he said. Seriously, he said it like that. I was on my three-speed with the banana seat and the sissy bar, going to Winn's to see if they had any swim fins that would fit me. Andrew and his mother had just moved to town.
Catching toads in the drainage ditch down the street a ways from Andrew's house (but not with that little weirdo), where the cement ended and the tiny stream took over. It's all paved now, but I know where the mesquite trees used to be, their branches leaning over to sweep the water that ran from a little spring.
Walking across that same drainage ditch years later in high school with my friend Steve, only to have some kid run up and slug him. A neighbor dispute that spilled over to the kids. Which explained why Steve suddenly wanted to walk home with me the week before.
My daily, personal Long March from high school, slogging up the hill headed for home, heavy book bag over one shoulder because using both straps was for dorks, watching as people with cars passed me by. I always held out hope that someone I knew would stop and offer me a ride but that never happened. Which is why, when I finally got a car, I would stop and give rides to people I knew, because I remembered how much it sucked to be on foot hoping for help that never came.
That place I assumed had always been a Home Depot? Nope, they built that after my time. The building I was thinking of was a toy store, a great-big stand alone toy store out in the middle of nowhere. I had forgotten that it was a toy store first, for years actually, before it became the office supply store it is now. But walking towards it through an alley as I would have back in middle school it all came roaring back to me. That's the place where I would buy Micronauts and my sister got whatever lame girl toys she was interested in. Strip malls and parking lots - and a Home Depot - have since grown up around it, and what was once a trail blazing iconoclast of a building is now just another contributor to suburban sprawl.
It's amazing what comes back to you when you put yourself in the same place under the same conditions as you were back then. I've driven those same roads in a car, even this past week, and I didn't remember that stuff. But being outside, in the cold with my nose running a little, with my legs aching a little, with my fingers tingling a little, brought it all back, just like it happened yesterday. Kind of spooky, actually. But it does make me want to go exploring a little more, so I can remember what I've forgotten.
But walking it, the way I used to, following the same route I trudged to high school, traversing the same alleys and back ways that took me to my first adult job as a waiter, things started coming back to me. Vignettes I hadn't thought of in years came back fresh as the day they happened, moments in time that helped form who I am today came bubbling up, demanding admission to my conscious mind.
There was the house where Andrew had been standing outside, waiting for a kid like me to ride by on his bike. 'Mummy, I found a new playmate,' he said. Seriously, he said it like that. I was on my three-speed with the banana seat and the sissy bar, going to Winn's to see if they had any swim fins that would fit me. Andrew and his mother had just moved to town.
Catching toads in the drainage ditch down the street a ways from Andrew's house (but not with that little weirdo), where the cement ended and the tiny stream took over. It's all paved now, but I know where the mesquite trees used to be, their branches leaning over to sweep the water that ran from a little spring.
Walking across that same drainage ditch years later in high school with my friend Steve, only to have some kid run up and slug him. A neighbor dispute that spilled over to the kids. Which explained why Steve suddenly wanted to walk home with me the week before.
My daily, personal Long March from high school, slogging up the hill headed for home, heavy book bag over one shoulder because using both straps was for dorks, watching as people with cars passed me by. I always held out hope that someone I knew would stop and offer me a ride but that never happened. Which is why, when I finally got a car, I would stop and give rides to people I knew, because I remembered how much it sucked to be on foot hoping for help that never came.
That place I assumed had always been a Home Depot? Nope, they built that after my time. The building I was thinking of was a toy store, a great-big stand alone toy store out in the middle of nowhere. I had forgotten that it was a toy store first, for years actually, before it became the office supply store it is now. But walking towards it through an alley as I would have back in middle school it all came roaring back to me. That's the place where I would buy Micronauts and my sister got whatever lame girl toys she was interested in. Strip malls and parking lots - and a Home Depot - have since grown up around it, and what was once a trail blazing iconoclast of a building is now just another contributor to suburban sprawl.
It's amazing what comes back to you when you put yourself in the same place under the same conditions as you were back then. I've driven those same roads in a car, even this past week, and I didn't remember that stuff. But being outside, in the cold with my nose running a little, with my legs aching a little, with my fingers tingling a little, brought it all back, just like it happened yesterday. Kind of spooky, actually. But it does make me want to go exploring a little more, so I can remember what I've forgotten.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Conversation With My Mother's Cat
It's said that on Christmas Eve, at midnight, animals can talk. So last night I waited up so I could have it out with Smokey, my mother's horrible cat. About 11:55 PM he tried to escape through his cat door, but I followed him outside, even though it was cold and windy. We sat on the front porch and had a little talk. What follows is a transcript of that conversation.
Me: All right, it's midnight on Christmas Eve. I know you can understand me, and now I can understand you back. Don't pretend you can't, I know how it works.
Smokey: Yeah? So? I got nothing to say.
I got plenty. Let's start with why you're such a disagreeable little bastard.
What do you mean?
We're not going to get anywhere if you shut down like that.
We're also not going to get anywhere if you keep insulting me.
Fine. Why do you present such an angry front all the time?
Well, to tell you the truth, I'd really rather just sit around all day licking my balls.
But you don't have any... Oh...
Yeah. Oh.
It's really a common thing, what all responsible pet owners do.
And that's supposed to make everything okay?
Well, I mean, I never really...
No, your kind never does. I can't tell you how many times a day I'm grooming myself, getting the feet and the ears and the tail, then I decide to go downtown, polish up the twins, only to find they're gone.
It's been years...
How about I get a little scissor happy below your belt? You think you wouldn't miss your two good buddies?
Let's not get hasty here...
So you think maybe something like that might make you angry too?
I suppose it would. But are you saying that's the only reason you get in fights with other animals? Why you attack ankles and feet? Why you hiss and growl and tear around the house? You're telling me you've been such a little savage all this time because my parents had you fixed?
That's about the size of it.
Huh. Kind of a long time to hold a grudge.
Can you think of a better reason?
I suppose not.
You feel better now that we've had a talk, you freakin' hippy? Glad to have something to tell your therapist?
Hey, I only live in California, I was born and raised here.
Whatever you say, Moondoggy.
You know, when you can talk you're even more of a jerk.
I gotta be me. Deal with it. Or don't, makes no difference.
Well... it is Christmas Eve. You want some cat treats?
I could eat. The chicken kind, I hate the liver ones. But this doesn't make us friends.
Absolutely not. And I'm still keeping the bedroom door closed so you can't get in.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
Me: All right, it's midnight on Christmas Eve. I know you can understand me, and now I can understand you back. Don't pretend you can't, I know how it works.
Smokey: Yeah? So? I got nothing to say.
I got plenty. Let's start with why you're such a disagreeable little bastard.
What do you mean?
We're not going to get anywhere if you shut down like that.
We're also not going to get anywhere if you keep insulting me.
Fine. Why do you present such an angry front all the time?
Well, to tell you the truth, I'd really rather just sit around all day licking my balls.
But you don't have any... Oh...
Yeah. Oh.
It's really a common thing, what all responsible pet owners do.
And that's supposed to make everything okay?
Well, I mean, I never really...
No, your kind never does. I can't tell you how many times a day I'm grooming myself, getting the feet and the ears and the tail, then I decide to go downtown, polish up the twins, only to find they're gone.
It's been years...
How about I get a little scissor happy below your belt? You think you wouldn't miss your two good buddies?
Let's not get hasty here...
So you think maybe something like that might make you angry too?
I suppose it would. But are you saying that's the only reason you get in fights with other animals? Why you attack ankles and feet? Why you hiss and growl and tear around the house? You're telling me you've been such a little savage all this time because my parents had you fixed?
That's about the size of it.
Huh. Kind of a long time to hold a grudge.
Can you think of a better reason?
I suppose not.
You feel better now that we've had a talk, you freakin' hippy? Glad to have something to tell your therapist?
Hey, I only live in California, I was born and raised here.
Whatever you say, Moondoggy.
You know, when you can talk you're even more of a jerk.
I gotta be me. Deal with it. Or don't, makes no difference.
Well... it is Christmas Eve. You want some cat treats?
I could eat. The chicken kind, I hate the liver ones. But this doesn't make us friends.
Absolutely not. And I'm still keeping the bedroom door closed so you can't get in.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Smith And Wesson Christmas
You know you're back in Texas when you hug your best friend and your hand falls on the pistol he has holstered under his jacket.
Perfectly legal, I assure you, he has a permit to carry a concealed weapon and is fully trained in the safe and judicious use of firearms.
But still...
I was born and raised here, and I'm not sure I like the concealed weapons permits. Seems a little too frontier for me. If you're going to ward off attacks by Indians - whom you previously gifted with smallpox blankets - then I can understand packing heat. Or if you're a cattle man trying to make it in sheep herder country. Or if you have a water rights dispute with the local cotton farmer and the sheriff is on the far side of the county sorting out a neighbor's feud. But if you're an IT professional and the closest you come to a Native American is the reservation casino, then a loaded firearm on your belt is probably not your best move.
Yeah, I know, it's un-Texan of me, but just like nothing good ever happens after midnight, nothing good ever comes of carrying a pistol, legally or otherwise. When you carry a loaded weapon you start wanting to solve all your problems with a bullet instead of rational thinking. And if you rationalize it by saying you're going into a dangerous area, all the more reason for either a) not going or b) not provoking anyone by flashing a piece.
I hope my concerns are unfounded, but I know that one day I'm going to get a phone call and I'm going to learn that someone's been shot. Either my friend or someone he encountered. And I'm not looking forward to that day.
Perfectly legal, I assure you, he has a permit to carry a concealed weapon and is fully trained in the safe and judicious use of firearms.
But still...
I was born and raised here, and I'm not sure I like the concealed weapons permits. Seems a little too frontier for me. If you're going to ward off attacks by Indians - whom you previously gifted with smallpox blankets - then I can understand packing heat. Or if you're a cattle man trying to make it in sheep herder country. Or if you have a water rights dispute with the local cotton farmer and the sheriff is on the far side of the county sorting out a neighbor's feud. But if you're an IT professional and the closest you come to a Native American is the reservation casino, then a loaded firearm on your belt is probably not your best move.
Yeah, I know, it's un-Texan of me, but just like nothing good ever happens after midnight, nothing good ever comes of carrying a pistol, legally or otherwise. When you carry a loaded weapon you start wanting to solve all your problems with a bullet instead of rational thinking. And if you rationalize it by saying you're going into a dangerous area, all the more reason for either a) not going or b) not provoking anyone by flashing a piece.
I hope my concerns are unfounded, but I know that one day I'm going to get a phone call and I'm going to learn that someone's been shot. Either my friend or someone he encountered. And I'm not looking forward to that day.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
When You Win You Lose
Did you know San Antonio was ranked 3rd fattest city by the CDC this year? I didn't either until I looked it up just now, but I should have been able to guess it by the Christmas shopping I've been doing the past few days.
Don't get me wrong, I love my home town. But damn... we got some big fat suckers here. Usually in SoCal I see a big fat sucker or two once a day. And I mean someone 300+ pounds, sometimes waddling on foot sometimes on their straining-to-roll Rascal. But here in SA if you go out anywhere - and I mean ANYWHERE - you're going to see several morbidly obese people, sometimes whole families, more jiggling flesh than can safely board an elevator. I started counting but after I got to ten (or thirty chins) in about half an hour I got so discouraged I stopped.
This ain't right. This is not a title to aspire to, nor is it something to be proud of. We need to slim down, San Antonio. Not after the holidays, not when you get around to it, right now.
I'm not the world's most svelte person, but I'm positively emaciated compared to some of these Shamus I've seen recently. And, yes, I'm being unkind, because they're grotesquely fat and telling people it's a 'lifestyle choice' to have a body fat percentage of 50% to 60% is nothing short of terminal. Put the fork down, you ridiculous, sweating, stretch-pants-wearing sons of bitches.
And, lest anyone accuse me of elitism, let me clue you in on something. My father weighed well over 300 pounds when he had a heart attack and died. He was not eight feet tall. His trigylicerides were over 400, when a normal number is around 100. Or less. He was an undiagnosed diabetic who never addressed his condition. If he had even tried to take care of himself he'd probably be alive right now, and given the longevity of his mother and her side of the family he probably had another 15 years in him. But he was one of the SA obese. And he died because of it. And all you big fat suckers are going to die because of it too. Yeah, I'm more than a little pissed, and if you take exception to that, challenge me to a foot race. If you can run more than three steps and can catch me, you can sit on me.
So shape the fuck up, San Antonio. If you're not going to do it for yourself, do it because I'm being a total unsympathetic asshole about it and you want to throw it in my face. Or do it for the families your untimely death is going to leave behind. Or do it because you saw Jesus in the tortilla that's slowly clogging your arteries. But do it.
Don't get me wrong, I love my home town. But damn... we got some big fat suckers here. Usually in SoCal I see a big fat sucker or two once a day. And I mean someone 300+ pounds, sometimes waddling on foot sometimes on their straining-to-roll Rascal. But here in SA if you go out anywhere - and I mean ANYWHERE - you're going to see several morbidly obese people, sometimes whole families, more jiggling flesh than can safely board an elevator. I started counting but after I got to ten (or thirty chins) in about half an hour I got so discouraged I stopped.
This ain't right. This is not a title to aspire to, nor is it something to be proud of. We need to slim down, San Antonio. Not after the holidays, not when you get around to it, right now.
I'm not the world's most svelte person, but I'm positively emaciated compared to some of these Shamus I've seen recently. And, yes, I'm being unkind, because they're grotesquely fat and telling people it's a 'lifestyle choice' to have a body fat percentage of 50% to 60% is nothing short of terminal. Put the fork down, you ridiculous, sweating, stretch-pants-wearing sons of bitches.
And, lest anyone accuse me of elitism, let me clue you in on something. My father weighed well over 300 pounds when he had a heart attack and died. He was not eight feet tall. His trigylicerides were over 400, when a normal number is around 100. Or less. He was an undiagnosed diabetic who never addressed his condition. If he had even tried to take care of himself he'd probably be alive right now, and given the longevity of his mother and her side of the family he probably had another 15 years in him. But he was one of the SA obese. And he died because of it. And all you big fat suckers are going to die because of it too. Yeah, I'm more than a little pissed, and if you take exception to that, challenge me to a foot race. If you can run more than three steps and can catch me, you can sit on me.
So shape the fuck up, San Antonio. If you're not going to do it for yourself, do it because I'm being a total unsympathetic asshole about it and you want to throw it in my face. Or do it for the families your untimely death is going to leave behind. Or do it because you saw Jesus in the tortilla that's slowly clogging your arteries. But do it.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Light-Up
I grew up on the border between suburbia and the country. My grandparents built in a new subdivision on the extreme Northern edge of San Antonio in the early 60's, in what had been ranchland and cotton fields. But it was close to Randolph AFB, which is where my grandparents would get their care and services during their twilight years. And by that I mean their dotage, not when they turned into vampires, which they did not do. So far as I know.
In order to draw prospective residents so far out of town, the city council - WWII veterans all - decided to host a Christmas light-up. The idea was to festoon the town in bright lights and maybe the people who came out would decide to buy a half acre and become residents. It worked, the town grew. Later on my parents bought a house a block away from my grandparents. And by the time I was in my early 20's San Antonio had grown up to touch Windcrest, our small incorporated city, and the cow pastures and cotton fields gave way to more tract homes and strip malls. So maybe the founders' idea worked just a bit too well.
During my childhood - what I call the 'indentured servant years' - I created Christmas for my parents and grandparents, I put out plywood elves and big plastic Santas, I attached lights to bushes and trees, I hung from the eaves to string lights from the house and set timers to make it all come together seamlessly. Mostly seamlessly. The neighbors did the same and for as long as can remember back the entire community participated, even goig so far as to make the water tower look like a giant candle. The effort was well worth it, as Windcrest became well-known for its Christmas lights. As I became old enough to drive the sheer number of people became a nuisance, as it took three times as long to get around than it did any other time of year because of the gawkers.
But the years wore on. The original residents, those retirees who had built the town, died off. The light-up tradition died with them. I watched as slowly the Windcrest Christmas tradition became block after block of dark houses.
This year it's different. There are cars stretching down the block, there are traffic jams and it's difficult for emergency vehicles to get by. Just like old times. It could be that people my age, those who remember the old times, have bought houses here, it could be the City Council is trying harder to make it a happening, it could be that hard times have made people appreciate once again the simple pleasures of driving around to look at Christmas decorations. The reason doesn't matter to me. The people are back, lots of them, and it's good to have my suburban streets clogged with gawkers once again.
Merry Christmas, families in cars and trucks, enjoy the lights and come back next year. There are no more open lots for you to pick to build your 1960's suburban dream home, but we like you here anyway. Take the tradition back with you wherever you're from and pass it on. Maybe we can take this sucker global.
In order to draw prospective residents so far out of town, the city council - WWII veterans all - decided to host a Christmas light-up. The idea was to festoon the town in bright lights and maybe the people who came out would decide to buy a half acre and become residents. It worked, the town grew. Later on my parents bought a house a block away from my grandparents. And by the time I was in my early 20's San Antonio had grown up to touch Windcrest, our small incorporated city, and the cow pastures and cotton fields gave way to more tract homes and strip malls. So maybe the founders' idea worked just a bit too well.
During my childhood - what I call the 'indentured servant years' - I created Christmas for my parents and grandparents, I put out plywood elves and big plastic Santas, I attached lights to bushes and trees, I hung from the eaves to string lights from the house and set timers to make it all come together seamlessly. Mostly seamlessly. The neighbors did the same and for as long as can remember back the entire community participated, even goig so far as to make the water tower look like a giant candle. The effort was well worth it, as Windcrest became well-known for its Christmas lights. As I became old enough to drive the sheer number of people became a nuisance, as it took three times as long to get around than it did any other time of year because of the gawkers.
But the years wore on. The original residents, those retirees who had built the town, died off. The light-up tradition died with them. I watched as slowly the Windcrest Christmas tradition became block after block of dark houses.
This year it's different. There are cars stretching down the block, there are traffic jams and it's difficult for emergency vehicles to get by. Just like old times. It could be that people my age, those who remember the old times, have bought houses here, it could be the City Council is trying harder to make it a happening, it could be that hard times have made people appreciate once again the simple pleasures of driving around to look at Christmas decorations. The reason doesn't matter to me. The people are back, lots of them, and it's good to have my suburban streets clogged with gawkers once again.
Merry Christmas, families in cars and trucks, enjoy the lights and come back next year. There are no more open lots for you to pick to build your 1960's suburban dream home, but we like you here anyway. Take the tradition back with you wherever you're from and pass it on. Maybe we can take this sucker global.
Monday, December 20, 2010
The Moon Is Bright
I'm waiting for the lunar eclipse, which is supposed to start in a little more than an hour. Though I'm perfectly capable of staying up I may not, partly because I'm working on becoming an old man before my time and partly because the moon is so freakin' bright tonight I'm not sure I want to spoil it.
The Winter Solstice, a full moon, and a lunar eclipse don't all happen on the same night very often and tonight's the night they're all crammed together like the Super Bowl, World Series and... uh... whatever hockey has all in the same day. It's a special time, cosmologially speaking, is what I'm trying to say, and the universe is delivering the goods. I was just outside with a newspaper and I could read all but the smallest type pretty easily.
Comets are supposed to portend big changes, perhaps apocalyptic changes, and comets come by way more often than lunar eclipses on the Winter Solstice, which have happened together twice before in the past 2,000 years, most recently 372 years ago. I'm not particularly alarmist, but I am guessing this celesital happening is foreshadowing some big changes. Or hoping it does anyway.
So keep your fingers and toes crossed the changes are good ones. Or that the clouds stay away until I get to see the eclipse, at the very least.
The Winter Solstice, a full moon, and a lunar eclipse don't all happen on the same night very often and tonight's the night they're all crammed together like the Super Bowl, World Series and... uh... whatever hockey has all in the same day. It's a special time, cosmologially speaking, is what I'm trying to say, and the universe is delivering the goods. I was just outside with a newspaper and I could read all but the smallest type pretty easily.
Comets are supposed to portend big changes, perhaps apocalyptic changes, and comets come by way more often than lunar eclipses on the Winter Solstice, which have happened together twice before in the past 2,000 years, most recently 372 years ago. I'm not particularly alarmist, but I am guessing this celesital happening is foreshadowing some big changes. Or hoping it does anyway.
So keep your fingers and toes crossed the changes are good ones. Or that the clouds stay away until I get to see the eclipse, at the very least.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Semiotics
You ever wonder what people are thiking? I do all the time, mostly because I'm mystified at their behavior. I'm not talking about foreigners, they get a pass; if I see someone dressed oddly or acting oddly and they have an accent I know they're not coming from the same place I am. If, however, I see a fellow American looking like a circus sideshow... get me my robe and gavel and let the judgement begin.
I was out last night with my mother, who needed to return a reconsidered Christmas present to Kohl's. And then, since we were in the store already, to shop for a new present in its place. This was just like Sears when I was younger, except this time she didn't feel the need to pretend to shop for me for a few minutes before taking an hour or more on something else. For my part I watched people. Who were, largely, unassuming and just going about their business.
And then I saw... HER.
Imagine, if you will, a woman whose hair is dyed not once but twice. Bleached blonde on top, bad home-dye job red underneath, both colors bound up in a sloppy, too-short ponytail with bits sticking out all over. Eyebrows gone and then painted in like a surprise. Thick pancake makeup. Lots of lip liner but no lipstick.
Moving down the neck I saw the angel wing tattoos on her chest peeking out from a black lace shirt, over which was mercifully thrown a shiny white coat. Brick red fingernails - I didn't even know they made brick red nail polish - and a wrist full of those shaped rubber band thingys kids go ape over. Some sort of knit skirt (yes, a knit skirt) that stopped just below the shiny white coat, and legs that sported patterned black lace tights. Her shoes were closed-toed gold lame which nevertheless revealed the tattoos she sported on the tops of her feet.
Best of all... pushing a baby stroller.
Dear God in Heaven, what could this woman possibly have been thinking? It was like she chose on purpose everything that would make her look not just bad but terrible. Like a cliched Hollywood interpretation of poor taste and judgement. But there were no cameras, this was real life. I'd be charitable and say she just didn't know any better, but she was at least my age, possibly older, and if I can tell she's a fugitive from the fashion police she has to know as well. What's more, this is the face of 'Grandma' (let's hope) for the poor little baby she was pushing around. A tattooed, dyed, hooker version of Nana.
Wow. Three things had to happen for me to encounter this train wreck in Kohl's. She had to think that ensemble looked good; she had to think it looked good on her; and she had to decide to go out in public looking like that. Triply bad.
You might say 'Don, why don't you just live and let live?' But you weren't there. You didn't see her, large as life, pass within feet of you, unashamed, like a mental patient who'd gone over the wall. I tried to imagine her home, but visions of black velvet Elvises and Franklin Mint collector NASCAR plates shut my mind down. It's always funny until someone loses an eye.
And for God's sake, take a look at yourself in the mirror before you go out. You're not the only person in the world, you know.
I was out last night with my mother, who needed to return a reconsidered Christmas present to Kohl's. And then, since we were in the store already, to shop for a new present in its place. This was just like Sears when I was younger, except this time she didn't feel the need to pretend to shop for me for a few minutes before taking an hour or more on something else. For my part I watched people. Who were, largely, unassuming and just going about their business.
And then I saw... HER.
Imagine, if you will, a woman whose hair is dyed not once but twice. Bleached blonde on top, bad home-dye job red underneath, both colors bound up in a sloppy, too-short ponytail with bits sticking out all over. Eyebrows gone and then painted in like a surprise. Thick pancake makeup. Lots of lip liner but no lipstick.
Moving down the neck I saw the angel wing tattoos on her chest peeking out from a black lace shirt, over which was mercifully thrown a shiny white coat. Brick red fingernails - I didn't even know they made brick red nail polish - and a wrist full of those shaped rubber band thingys kids go ape over. Some sort of knit skirt (yes, a knit skirt) that stopped just below the shiny white coat, and legs that sported patterned black lace tights. Her shoes were closed-toed gold lame which nevertheless revealed the tattoos she sported on the tops of her feet.
Best of all... pushing a baby stroller.
Dear God in Heaven, what could this woman possibly have been thinking? It was like she chose on purpose everything that would make her look not just bad but terrible. Like a cliched Hollywood interpretation of poor taste and judgement. But there were no cameras, this was real life. I'd be charitable and say she just didn't know any better, but she was at least my age, possibly older, and if I can tell she's a fugitive from the fashion police she has to know as well. What's more, this is the face of 'Grandma' (let's hope) for the poor little baby she was pushing around. A tattooed, dyed, hooker version of Nana.
Wow. Three things had to happen for me to encounter this train wreck in Kohl's. She had to think that ensemble looked good; she had to think it looked good on her; and she had to decide to go out in public looking like that. Triply bad.
You might say 'Don, why don't you just live and let live?' But you weren't there. You didn't see her, large as life, pass within feet of you, unashamed, like a mental patient who'd gone over the wall. I tried to imagine her home, but visions of black velvet Elvises and Franklin Mint collector NASCAR plates shut my mind down. It's always funny until someone loses an eye.
And for God's sake, take a look at yourself in the mirror before you go out. You're not the only person in the world, you know.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Bait-N-Switch
I've mentioned before about advice my grandfather gave me that I didn't understand at the time but which turned out to be useful later. Like his admonition to 'spend a little extra, get nice shoes that fit.' Brilliant. My grandfather was a bit of a scam artist, to tell the truth, and I really wish I had discovered more about his upbringing before he died, I'm sure it was a sordid tale full of human drama.
Anyway... one of the many things he warned me about was the old 'bait and switch' sales method. It used to happen all the time, especially with car sales. A dealer would advertise a '54 Chrysler Imperial for, say $500. Except they didn't have a Chrysler Imperial on the lot, let alone one for $500. So when you went to the lot to test drive the Imperial, they'd tell you of your bad luck ('someone just drove it off') and then try to sell you the 55 Chrysler New Yorker for $1500. Bait - cheap car - and switch - present you with a more expensive one.
Bait and switch is illegal. If a vendor advertises a certain item, they'd better have that item on-hand or they'll get fined or shut down, possibly both.
Well, let's look at Facebook's advertising rates. I have a page on Facebook for this very blog, and I have a budget each day for FB to place that ad on pages. I bid a certain amount, say 60 cents, for each click. This amount is far lower than the 'suggested' bid of 70 cents, and so my ad does not get served out because the rate never gets down to 60 cents. I left it like that for a very long time because I just didn't care to play the game I knew was coming. This past week I decided to play.
The 'suggested' rate was 70 cents. So I raised my bid to 70 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' rate went up to 79 cents.
Hmmm....
I raised my bid to 80 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to 90 cents. My mama didn't raise no fool, but I decided to play along, to establish a pattern. I raised my bid to 91 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to $1.03
Classic bait and switch. You couldn't do it better if you were a car dealer in 1965. You want us to serve your ad? That'll be 70 cents a click. Oh, hold on a moment, that 70 cents is no longer valid. But, just for you, we can do 80 cents a click, are you interested in that one? Ooooh... sorry, but that 80 cents a click isn't right either, the price just went up. We could put you in a very nice ad for just 90 cents a click, though...
Rat bastard sons of bitches. We need to get some investigative journalists on this, start cracking heads.
My next step is to steadily decrease my bid and see how the rates follow. My guess is the 'suggested' bid stays just tantalizingly out of reach.
Anyway... one of the many things he warned me about was the old 'bait and switch' sales method. It used to happen all the time, especially with car sales. A dealer would advertise a '54 Chrysler Imperial for, say $500. Except they didn't have a Chrysler Imperial on the lot, let alone one for $500. So when you went to the lot to test drive the Imperial, they'd tell you of your bad luck ('someone just drove it off') and then try to sell you the 55 Chrysler New Yorker for $1500. Bait - cheap car - and switch - present you with a more expensive one.
Bait and switch is illegal. If a vendor advertises a certain item, they'd better have that item on-hand or they'll get fined or shut down, possibly both.
Well, let's look at Facebook's advertising rates. I have a page on Facebook for this very blog, and I have a budget each day for FB to place that ad on pages. I bid a certain amount, say 60 cents, for each click. This amount is far lower than the 'suggested' bid of 70 cents, and so my ad does not get served out because the rate never gets down to 60 cents. I left it like that for a very long time because I just didn't care to play the game I knew was coming. This past week I decided to play.
The 'suggested' rate was 70 cents. So I raised my bid to 70 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' rate went up to 79 cents.
Hmmm....
I raised my bid to 80 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to 90 cents. My mama didn't raise no fool, but I decided to play along, to establish a pattern. I raised my bid to 91 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to $1.03
Classic bait and switch. You couldn't do it better if you were a car dealer in 1965. You want us to serve your ad? That'll be 70 cents a click. Oh, hold on a moment, that 70 cents is no longer valid. But, just for you, we can do 80 cents a click, are you interested in that one? Ooooh... sorry, but that 80 cents a click isn't right either, the price just went up. We could put you in a very nice ad for just 90 cents a click, though...
Rat bastard sons of bitches. We need to get some investigative journalists on this, start cracking heads.
My next step is to steadily decrease my bid and see how the rates follow. My guess is the 'suggested' bid stays just tantalizingly out of reach.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Beards?
Why do men have beards?
And I don't mean the physiological basis, androgens and all that mess. I get that. I want to know why men have bears on a more evolutionary basis. What advantage does having a beard convey to men? And why do some men have relatively hairless chins - like many Native Americans - and others look like insane mountain men after two days of not shaving?
This is interesting to me because 50,000 years ago, before there were razors, cavemen would have sported long, luxurious beards. To go along with their back hair. But cavewomen would have remained mustache-less, at least until cavewoman menopause. They shared the same environment, ate the same things, did much the same work, and yet men evolved beards and women did not.
Por que?
Maybe it's really just a side effect of the hormones that make men more aggressive, stronger, and predisposed to hunt instead of gather. Women have the same shoulder muscles men do, after all, but more slender versions that will never bulk up the way men's shoulders do. But if it were just a side effect, then presumably all men would have beards. And yet, as we discussed earlier, not all men grow facial hair. The difference is by global region, which points to some sort of evolutionary adaptation.
Do Native American men have more naturally warm faces? So that when it gets cold outside they don't need the same kind of insulation European men do? Maybe ancient European women found beards much more attractive than hairless chins, and so there was natural selection for beardy-ness in European men? Maybe ancient Native Americans didn't scalp their enemies, they 'bearded' them? I'm just shooting in the dark here.
This needs funding and serious research. Because I want to know.
And I don't mean the physiological basis, androgens and all that mess. I get that. I want to know why men have bears on a more evolutionary basis. What advantage does having a beard convey to men? And why do some men have relatively hairless chins - like many Native Americans - and others look like insane mountain men after two days of not shaving?
This is interesting to me because 50,000 years ago, before there were razors, cavemen would have sported long, luxurious beards. To go along with their back hair. But cavewomen would have remained mustache-less, at least until cavewoman menopause. They shared the same environment, ate the same things, did much the same work, and yet men evolved beards and women did not.
Por que?
Maybe it's really just a side effect of the hormones that make men more aggressive, stronger, and predisposed to hunt instead of gather. Women have the same shoulder muscles men do, after all, but more slender versions that will never bulk up the way men's shoulders do. But if it were just a side effect, then presumably all men would have beards. And yet, as we discussed earlier, not all men grow facial hair. The difference is by global region, which points to some sort of evolutionary adaptation.
Do Native American men have more naturally warm faces? So that when it gets cold outside they don't need the same kind of insulation European men do? Maybe ancient European women found beards much more attractive than hairless chins, and so there was natural selection for beardy-ness in European men? Maybe ancient Native Americans didn't scalp their enemies, they 'bearded' them? I'm just shooting in the dark here.
This needs funding and serious research. Because I want to know.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Formerly Fat Comedians
I've been watching The Price Is Right off and on for a week or so. This is after Drew Carey lost something like seventy pounds this year. He's skinny now, practically a beanpole. Undoubtedly this is a great move for him, losing so much weight and keeping it off will almost guarantee him years more life with fewer problems like diabetes or joint pain, that kind of thing.
But he's not funny any more.
The first day I watched I wasn't sure. It has been a while since I'd seen the show, and it's a new season, things weren't 100% the way I remembered. Drew wasn't zinging them quite the way he used to, but maybe it was my imagination. I thought. So I gave it another day. And another. And another. I was thinking maybe I wasn't paying attention, or he was subtler, or God knows what. But everything else was pretty much the same, same models, mostly the same games, same wildly exuberant crowd. I can only assume that the production staff is the same, even though they got rid of Rich Fields as announcer. Same same same same same. Only the host was no longer fat.
After a few days' viewing I reached the inescapable conclusion, Drew just wasn't as funny thin as he was fat.
Which got me to thinking. Why is that? Why would Drew Carey be funny fat and not funny thin? Is it my expectations? Maybe. My memories of the other season and my time 'between assignments?' Maybe. But I think empirically it's the case that he's not as funny when he's thin.
I think that whatever changed inside him - for the better, most assuredly - that led him to want to drop seventy pounds is also the thing that made him lose that comic edge. Funny comes from a place of pain, and when you smooth the edges of that pain you take the bite out of your funny. It's the curse of comedian's success; when you ease the trauma and pain of your early days you get rid of the thing that made you funny in the first place. Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Seinfeld, Ray Romano, Kevin James, it happens to them all. It happened to Drew Carey too.
I don't begrudge him the change, but The Price Is Right just ain't the same. I guess I'll have to find something else to occupy my time in the middle of the morning. Maybe Sesame Street is on, I could use a dose of Elmo.
But he's not funny any more.
The first day I watched I wasn't sure. It has been a while since I'd seen the show, and it's a new season, things weren't 100% the way I remembered. Drew wasn't zinging them quite the way he used to, but maybe it was my imagination. I thought. So I gave it another day. And another. And another. I was thinking maybe I wasn't paying attention, or he was subtler, or God knows what. But everything else was pretty much the same, same models, mostly the same games, same wildly exuberant crowd. I can only assume that the production staff is the same, even though they got rid of Rich Fields as announcer. Same same same same same. Only the host was no longer fat.
After a few days' viewing I reached the inescapable conclusion, Drew just wasn't as funny thin as he was fat.
Which got me to thinking. Why is that? Why would Drew Carey be funny fat and not funny thin? Is it my expectations? Maybe. My memories of the other season and my time 'between assignments?' Maybe. But I think empirically it's the case that he's not as funny when he's thin.
I think that whatever changed inside him - for the better, most assuredly - that led him to want to drop seventy pounds is also the thing that made him lose that comic edge. Funny comes from a place of pain, and when you smooth the edges of that pain you take the bite out of your funny. It's the curse of comedian's success; when you ease the trauma and pain of your early days you get rid of the thing that made you funny in the first place. Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Seinfeld, Ray Romano, Kevin James, it happens to them all. It happened to Drew Carey too.
I don't begrudge him the change, but The Price Is Right just ain't the same. I guess I'll have to find something else to occupy my time in the middle of the morning. Maybe Sesame Street is on, I could use a dose of Elmo.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Safe Inside Or Out In The Nuclear Wasteland
You want to have a little fun with your friends? And by fun I mean start more trouble than you thought you would or are really comfortable handling? You are? Good. Try this:
When you're gathered around twenty or thirty people - friends, family, co-workers, what have you - get one other person and start playing a hypothetical 'what if' game. Or, as Einstein put it, ein Gedankenexperiment. What you'll do is assume that the world has been utterly destroyed in a nuclear holocaust except the building you're inside. Every door and window has been sealed, there is no way for any of the radiation to get you. You're all safe.
However... there are not enough resources to keep everyone alive. So you and your friend have to make the tough decisions regarding who gets to stay safe inside and who gets shoved to almost certain death (or mutation) outside. And you can't do it in secret, you have to discuss this right out in front of everyone. If people ask why you're the ones making the decision just tell them because you thought of it first.
A friend of mine and I did this years ago, between shifts at the Olive Garden. We had some time to kill and decided to rank everyone in sight according to their fitness to stay inside our non-nuclear safe zone. For a while there we had a Purgatory of an airlock, halfway between salvation and damnation, but we had to abandon that idea when the population inside the airlock was greater than that either in or out. Being that we were in our early 20's we kept a lot of the hot waitresses because we'd need breeding stock to repopulate the Earth when the time came, and we kept a few of the smart guys because they'd be fun company, and then most everybody else we shoved outside. We kept only one guy in the airlock, so he could run outside and repair the antenna when we needed him to.
What for us was a way to kill ten minutes turned into a days-long back and forth, complete with negotiations and pleas and backstabbing mutterings. Our population grew from just those people we could see that afternoon to the entire population of the restaurant, cooks, bus boys, waiters, cashiers, bartenders, managers, regional mangers, absolutely everyone. People really got into it, with those we kept inside very proud and disdainful of those outside, and those outside eager to make their case as to why they should stay safe and become part of the 'in' crowd. Those we relegated to the wasteland eventually decided they were going to form a radioactive mutant army and come back to storm the restaurant and take it by force. Until we pointed out that, because they would be contaminated by radiation, if they did breach the walls they'd just be turning the last hope for non-mutant humans into more nuclear fallout. And then we told them their lack of foresight is what made us put them outside in the first place.
It was a very telling exercise in human nature, one that took us entirely by surprise. Who knew that people would take it so seriously? And, you know, now that I'm thinking about it, if I'd been a little quicker on the uptake back then that whole business probably could have gotten me laid.
Ah well, live and learn.
When you're gathered around twenty or thirty people - friends, family, co-workers, what have you - get one other person and start playing a hypothetical 'what if' game. Or, as Einstein put it, ein Gedankenexperiment. What you'll do is assume that the world has been utterly destroyed in a nuclear holocaust except the building you're inside. Every door and window has been sealed, there is no way for any of the radiation to get you. You're all safe.
However... there are not enough resources to keep everyone alive. So you and your friend have to make the tough decisions regarding who gets to stay safe inside and who gets shoved to almost certain death (or mutation) outside. And you can't do it in secret, you have to discuss this right out in front of everyone. If people ask why you're the ones making the decision just tell them because you thought of it first.
A friend of mine and I did this years ago, between shifts at the Olive Garden. We had some time to kill and decided to rank everyone in sight according to their fitness to stay inside our non-nuclear safe zone. For a while there we had a Purgatory of an airlock, halfway between salvation and damnation, but we had to abandon that idea when the population inside the airlock was greater than that either in or out. Being that we were in our early 20's we kept a lot of the hot waitresses because we'd need breeding stock to repopulate the Earth when the time came, and we kept a few of the smart guys because they'd be fun company, and then most everybody else we shoved outside. We kept only one guy in the airlock, so he could run outside and repair the antenna when we needed him to.
What for us was a way to kill ten minutes turned into a days-long back and forth, complete with negotiations and pleas and backstabbing mutterings. Our population grew from just those people we could see that afternoon to the entire population of the restaurant, cooks, bus boys, waiters, cashiers, bartenders, managers, regional mangers, absolutely everyone. People really got into it, with those we kept inside very proud and disdainful of those outside, and those outside eager to make their case as to why they should stay safe and become part of the 'in' crowd. Those we relegated to the wasteland eventually decided they were going to form a radioactive mutant army and come back to storm the restaurant and take it by force. Until we pointed out that, because they would be contaminated by radiation, if they did breach the walls they'd just be turning the last hope for non-mutant humans into more nuclear fallout. And then we told them their lack of foresight is what made us put them outside in the first place.
It was a very telling exercise in human nature, one that took us entirely by surprise. Who knew that people would take it so seriously? And, you know, now that I'm thinking about it, if I'd been a little quicker on the uptake back then that whole business probably could have gotten me laid.
Ah well, live and learn.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned that octopuses are up to something.*
It's well-accepted that certain animals are far more intelligent than we human beings give them credit for. Whales, obviously, some kinds of apes, and dogs for certain, all display character and personality and interests that place them out of the same 'dumb animal' class as, say, armadillos or chipmunks. (Or Kardashians. ZING!!)
Some researchers say cephalopods are the smartest things in the ocean, more so than whales or dolphins. Or maybe even us. Which is the kind of notion that keeps me awake at night. I can recognize a kindred spirit in a dog or a gorilla or a beluga whale, we're all mammals and that's a bonding experience. So it doesn't bother me to think that they're thinking, know what I mean? But an octopus... eight arms, a beak, those creepy, evil eyes like some sort of Nazi geneticist just waiting for the chance to tamper with God's intention... it just ain't right. I imagine going deep-sea diving and getting captured by some octopus Gestapo, tied to an examining table while they flash different colors as they carve bits of me away. Ewww.
The only saving grace is that octopuses have no skeleton, so we got 'em there. They minute they leave the sea they're nothing but a floppy mass of gristle. If they wanted to invade dry land they'd have to come up with some sort of exoskeleton to support their weight, like a giant octopus robot with a seawater-filled clear round dome for their head and two giant mechanical legs and six snakelike slithery arms and a raspy electronic voice whispering hideous evil things...
Oh, great, now I have something new to worry about.
* I know the proper plural is 'octopi,' I used to teach Latin. But octopuses sounds funnier.
It's well-accepted that certain animals are far more intelligent than we human beings give them credit for. Whales, obviously, some kinds of apes, and dogs for certain, all display character and personality and interests that place them out of the same 'dumb animal' class as, say, armadillos or chipmunks. (Or Kardashians. ZING!!)
Some researchers say cephalopods are the smartest things in the ocean, more so than whales or dolphins. Or maybe even us. Which is the kind of notion that keeps me awake at night. I can recognize a kindred spirit in a dog or a gorilla or a beluga whale, we're all mammals and that's a bonding experience. So it doesn't bother me to think that they're thinking, know what I mean? But an octopus... eight arms, a beak, those creepy, evil eyes like some sort of Nazi geneticist just waiting for the chance to tamper with God's intention... it just ain't right. I imagine going deep-sea diving and getting captured by some octopus Gestapo, tied to an examining table while they flash different colors as they carve bits of me away. Ewww.
The only saving grace is that octopuses have no skeleton, so we got 'em there. They minute they leave the sea they're nothing but a floppy mass of gristle. If they wanted to invade dry land they'd have to come up with some sort of exoskeleton to support their weight, like a giant octopus robot with a seawater-filled clear round dome for their head and two giant mechanical legs and six snakelike slithery arms and a raspy electronic voice whispering hideous evil things...
Oh, great, now I have something new to worry about.
* I know the proper plural is 'octopi,' I used to teach Latin. But octopuses sounds funnier.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Holiday Cheer On The 134
I like Christmas music more the older I get. Not that I ever didn't like it, but I think I feel the holiday spirit better and deeper now than I used to. Maybe it's part of getting older, maybe it's just my Grinchy heart growing three sizes, who knows? A few years back it wouldn't have been my thing, but I'm really digging the LA station that's now all-Christmas, all the time. When I'm in the truck I'm switching from NPR to Jingle Bells, and I'm only too happy to do it.
It's joy and happiness and gratitude and exuberance and anticipation all at the same time. Listening makes me smile and calms me down.
And sometimes cool things happen.
Like tonight. I was putting in a guest appearance at an improv class I used to take, and since it's unseasonably warm in LA right now I took the hot rod. Top down, natch.
So I'm coming back from Studio City - where the class meets - still with the top down and with Christmas music playing on the radio. As I'm leaving Glendale and coming up the hill on the 134 before Eagle Rock 'O Holy Night' comes on. This part of the highway is out of any city and there are no street lights as the road rises over the hills. Which means, come to find out, it's one of the few parts of LA where you can actually see stars overhead. And since I had the top down on the hot rod I could just look up and take it all in.
Sublime. On the LA freeway, top down, stars twinkling above me. 'Hear the angels' voices' indeed.
Like most such moments it only lasted a short time, long enough for me to travel the four miles or so between the 2 and the 210. And then the lights of Pasadena took over and the stars washed out to the regular black/gray shroud. But I'll carry that experience with me, something to cling to when things turn South.
Merry Christmas, here's hoping this isn't the last cool thing that happens this season.
It's joy and happiness and gratitude and exuberance and anticipation all at the same time. Listening makes me smile and calms me down.
And sometimes cool things happen.
Like tonight. I was putting in a guest appearance at an improv class I used to take, and since it's unseasonably warm in LA right now I took the hot rod. Top down, natch.
So I'm coming back from Studio City - where the class meets - still with the top down and with Christmas music playing on the radio. As I'm leaving Glendale and coming up the hill on the 134 before Eagle Rock 'O Holy Night' comes on. This part of the highway is out of any city and there are no street lights as the road rises over the hills. Which means, come to find out, it's one of the few parts of LA where you can actually see stars overhead. And since I had the top down on the hot rod I could just look up and take it all in.
Sublime. On the LA freeway, top down, stars twinkling above me. 'Hear the angels' voices' indeed.
Like most such moments it only lasted a short time, long enough for me to travel the four miles or so between the 2 and the 210. And then the lights of Pasadena took over and the stars washed out to the regular black/gray shroud. But I'll carry that experience with me, something to cling to when things turn South.
Merry Christmas, here's hoping this isn't the last cool thing that happens this season.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Our Hero Returns
Captain Grant Manley gazed out across the stark Venusian landscape, ready to spring into action in the event one of the degenerate insectoid natives had survived the assault launched from the USS Victorious. The sulfurous volcanic winds blew hot and fast, but Manley kept cool and calm in his skin-tight pressure suit, supplied as it was with patriotic Earth air and kept at a normal, non-degenerate Earth temperature.
"I think that's the last of them," Manley muttered, though he still kept an eye peeled. "Looks like we taught them a lesson they won't forget."
"You do good work, Grant," Estelle Sparks sighed. She ran her hands along his wide shoulders, which bulged and rippled with muscles even through his pressure suit. "And I don't just mean slaughtering aliens."
"Aren't we the aliens here?" Teddy Courage asked. The Captain's trusty cabin boy, Teddy took Manley's depleted Q-ray blaster and replaced it with a fully-charged one.
"Nonsense, my boy," Manley chuckled, gesturing at the ochre plain littered with the remains of chitinous exoskeletons. "Look at them, with their compound eyes and six legs and those disgusting mouth parts. Why, you can blow three legs off one of those grasshoppers and they still keep coming. That counts as an alien in my book."
"Grasshoppers," Estelle mumbled, the term the Earth Council troops used to refer to the indigenous Venusian lifeforms. "Why can't they be more like us?"
"Some day, the good Lord willing, they will be," Manley said, his hand casually draping around Estelle's waist. She sighed.
Teddy moved between Estelle and his Captain, pressing his fingers hard into Manley's shoulders just the way he liked. The way Estelle could never get right.
"But this is their planet," Teddy insisted, "we're the invaders."
"We're only here to win their hearts and minds," Manley reminded Teddy. "And to bring civilization to this backwater cesspool of a planet."
"Didn't they have a thriving civilization before we got here?" Teddy asked. "Aren't we the ones who blew up their cities and killed thousands of their people and ruined their infrastructure?"
Manley turned slowly, his square jaw set, his steel-gray eyes focused with purpose. Teddy quailed under his Captain's masterful gaze and his heart flutered in his chest.
"I'd hate to think you didn't support the Earth Council one-hundred percent, lad," Manley growled. "If you're not completely with us you're against us."
"Isn't informed dissent one of the cornerstones of Earth Council governance?" Estelle remarked idly. "Didn't our founding fathers and mothers disagree on almost everything?"
Both Teddy and Manley stopped and turned to the lithe, buxon, raven-haired science officer, astonished at her words.
"I don't think I like your tone, Estelle," Manley said.
Teddy nestled closer to his Captain's rock-hard physique. "Sir, doesn't that sound dangerously close to treason?"
Manley nodded his head. "I believe it does, lad. Estelle, get back into the ship. You and I are going to have a talk about what it means to be a patriot."
Pale and shaken, Estelle trudged back towards the USS Victorious landing site, her ample hips shaking a counterpoint with each step.
"Such a shame," Manley said when Estelle was out of earshot, "she's a good officer, but a little too smart for her own good. History is what the Earth Council says it is, not what you read in books."
"Besides, she's just a girl," Teddy said as he kneaded the knots out of his Captain's shoulders, "she'll never really understand what it's like for us men, out here, alone, on the desolate frontiers of proper civilization."
Manley sighed and relaxed under his trusty cabin boy's ministrations. "Truer words were never spoken, lad."
"I think that's the last of them," Manley muttered, though he still kept an eye peeled. "Looks like we taught them a lesson they won't forget."
"You do good work, Grant," Estelle Sparks sighed. She ran her hands along his wide shoulders, which bulged and rippled with muscles even through his pressure suit. "And I don't just mean slaughtering aliens."
"Aren't we the aliens here?" Teddy Courage asked. The Captain's trusty cabin boy, Teddy took Manley's depleted Q-ray blaster and replaced it with a fully-charged one.
"Nonsense, my boy," Manley chuckled, gesturing at the ochre plain littered with the remains of chitinous exoskeletons. "Look at them, with their compound eyes and six legs and those disgusting mouth parts. Why, you can blow three legs off one of those grasshoppers and they still keep coming. That counts as an alien in my book."
"Grasshoppers," Estelle mumbled, the term the Earth Council troops used to refer to the indigenous Venusian lifeforms. "Why can't they be more like us?"
"Some day, the good Lord willing, they will be," Manley said, his hand casually draping around Estelle's waist. She sighed.
Teddy moved between Estelle and his Captain, pressing his fingers hard into Manley's shoulders just the way he liked. The way Estelle could never get right.
"But this is their planet," Teddy insisted, "we're the invaders."
"We're only here to win their hearts and minds," Manley reminded Teddy. "And to bring civilization to this backwater cesspool of a planet."
"Didn't they have a thriving civilization before we got here?" Teddy asked. "Aren't we the ones who blew up their cities and killed thousands of their people and ruined their infrastructure?"
Manley turned slowly, his square jaw set, his steel-gray eyes focused with purpose. Teddy quailed under his Captain's masterful gaze and his heart flutered in his chest.
"I'd hate to think you didn't support the Earth Council one-hundred percent, lad," Manley growled. "If you're not completely with us you're against us."
"Isn't informed dissent one of the cornerstones of Earth Council governance?" Estelle remarked idly. "Didn't our founding fathers and mothers disagree on almost everything?"
Both Teddy and Manley stopped and turned to the lithe, buxon, raven-haired science officer, astonished at her words.
"I don't think I like your tone, Estelle," Manley said.
Teddy nestled closer to his Captain's rock-hard physique. "Sir, doesn't that sound dangerously close to treason?"
Manley nodded his head. "I believe it does, lad. Estelle, get back into the ship. You and I are going to have a talk about what it means to be a patriot."
Pale and shaken, Estelle trudged back towards the USS Victorious landing site, her ample hips shaking a counterpoint with each step.
"Such a shame," Manley said when Estelle was out of earshot, "she's a good officer, but a little too smart for her own good. History is what the Earth Council says it is, not what you read in books."
"Besides, she's just a girl," Teddy said as he kneaded the knots out of his Captain's shoulders, "she'll never really understand what it's like for us men, out here, alone, on the desolate frontiers of proper civilization."
Manley sighed and relaxed under his trusty cabin boy's ministrations. "Truer words were never spoken, lad."
Friday, December 10, 2010
Journal Of Unsurprising Research
I was reading in Scientific American* a few months back that researchers had sequenced the Neanderthal genome and then compared it with modern humans'. Their conclusion was that, at some time in the past, before Neanderthals died out completely, humans and Neanderthals interbred.
This is a surprise?
I applaud the effort the researchers went to, it's not easy getting genetic material from 60,000 year old bones, but I could have pointed them to any number of bullies and malcontents from my middle school and high school years to prove the caveman-interbreeding hypothesis. Low-browed and thick-limbed, dim-witted and guttural, these guys were throwbacks to pre-history, when strength and cruelty were needed instead of compassion and insight.
I remember one guy in particular, a year ahead of me in middle school, who was on the football team. Keep in mind that we were, what?, twelve? thirteen? And already this guy was covered in a carpet of body hair so thick that he looked like a chimp on the run. Or a Neanderthal, now that I've read the research. It was astonishing, he even had wiry hair on the second knuckle of his fingers. Put him in wolf fur and give him a spear to jab into a mastodon and I think he would have been right at home.
What I'm saying is I already knew what these researchers have proved. So I got to thinking, what other non-surprises do scientists have in store for us? Fire is hot? UFOs are real? Cats want to murder their owners and eat their eyeballs? These are all well-established propositions.
Scientists should get extra points for coming up with new stuff. Like the universe is held together with twine. Space-twine, sure, but it's still twine. Or proving that your face really will stick like that, just like your mother said.
See? I should be a scientist, there's lots of stuff I could test. They make a pretty good living. There's got to be a lot of millionaire scientists, right?
* yeah, I like reading about science stuff, so what? Don't you oppress me...
This is a surprise?
I applaud the effort the researchers went to, it's not easy getting genetic material from 60,000 year old bones, but I could have pointed them to any number of bullies and malcontents from my middle school and high school years to prove the caveman-interbreeding hypothesis. Low-browed and thick-limbed, dim-witted and guttural, these guys were throwbacks to pre-history, when strength and cruelty were needed instead of compassion and insight.
I remember one guy in particular, a year ahead of me in middle school, who was on the football team. Keep in mind that we were, what?, twelve? thirteen? And already this guy was covered in a carpet of body hair so thick that he looked like a chimp on the run. Or a Neanderthal, now that I've read the research. It was astonishing, he even had wiry hair on the second knuckle of his fingers. Put him in wolf fur and give him a spear to jab into a mastodon and I think he would have been right at home.
What I'm saying is I already knew what these researchers have proved. So I got to thinking, what other non-surprises do scientists have in store for us? Fire is hot? UFOs are real? Cats want to murder their owners and eat their eyeballs? These are all well-established propositions.
Scientists should get extra points for coming up with new stuff. Like the universe is held together with twine. Space-twine, sure, but it's still twine. Or proving that your face really will stick like that, just like your mother said.
See? I should be a scientist, there's lots of stuff I could test. They make a pretty good living. There's got to be a lot of millionaire scientists, right?
* yeah, I like reading about science stuff, so what? Don't you oppress me...
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Goin' Down Swingin'
I got fired Tuesday.
Rather, my contract was canceled but the difference is just semantics. And what did I do to get my contract canceled after just seven days?
I sent an e-mail.
Seriously. Not a rude e-mail, not an angry one, just a 'hello' e-mail introducing myself. I was working at a talent agency - maybe THE talent agency in town - over on the West side in Century City. The commute was terrible, an hour to go twenty miles, and the company atmosphere was intolerable. Really. A horrible place, as one of my friends who used to go to this company frequently for meetings warned me. The only reason I agreed to take this gig was to try to get my writing in front of someone there. Hence the e-mail, which was me introducing myself to a lady in charge of looking for stories. I don't know if she told someone that I tried to contact her or if they found out by monitoring my e-mail. Probably both.
Evidently they frown on that sort of thing, at least from consultants working in the building. Who knew? I suspected something was up when I didn't get the e-mail asking what I wanted to order for our lunch meeting on Wednesday, and then on my way home I got the call that they were canceling my contract. I'm not broken up about it, I had been counting the days until Christmas break and counting the hours until it was time to go home every day. I didn't belong in that poisonous atmosphere in the first place.
I've never been fired before. I was 'let go' because of the economy and corporate consolidation, which was more of a 'we don't have a spot for you now' kind of thing, not a termination for cause. Tuesday's cancellation wasn't really for cause either - I mean, seriously, one e-mail? - but I still got fired. I consider it a badge of honor and a point of pride. Kicked out of a den of vipers? I'll take that hit then stand up again in case they want to do it one more time.
To tell you the truth, I'd rather go down swinging, fighting for what I want, rather than to keep a job at a terrible place just to be employed. If you're not failing you're not trying.
I'm now 'between assignments' again. Drew Carey and The Price Is Right can now rest easy, know that I'll be back with them, at least for a little while.
Rather, my contract was canceled but the difference is just semantics. And what did I do to get my contract canceled after just seven days?
I sent an e-mail.
Seriously. Not a rude e-mail, not an angry one, just a 'hello' e-mail introducing myself. I was working at a talent agency - maybe THE talent agency in town - over on the West side in Century City. The commute was terrible, an hour to go twenty miles, and the company atmosphere was intolerable. Really. A horrible place, as one of my friends who used to go to this company frequently for meetings warned me. The only reason I agreed to take this gig was to try to get my writing in front of someone there. Hence the e-mail, which was me introducing myself to a lady in charge of looking for stories. I don't know if she told someone that I tried to contact her or if they found out by monitoring my e-mail. Probably both.
Evidently they frown on that sort of thing, at least from consultants working in the building. Who knew? I suspected something was up when I didn't get the e-mail asking what I wanted to order for our lunch meeting on Wednesday, and then on my way home I got the call that they were canceling my contract. I'm not broken up about it, I had been counting the days until Christmas break and counting the hours until it was time to go home every day. I didn't belong in that poisonous atmosphere in the first place.
I've never been fired before. I was 'let go' because of the economy and corporate consolidation, which was more of a 'we don't have a spot for you now' kind of thing, not a termination for cause. Tuesday's cancellation wasn't really for cause either - I mean, seriously, one e-mail? - but I still got fired. I consider it a badge of honor and a point of pride. Kicked out of a den of vipers? I'll take that hit then stand up again in case they want to do it one more time.
To tell you the truth, I'd rather go down swinging, fighting for what I want, rather than to keep a job at a terrible place just to be employed. If you're not failing you're not trying.
I'm now 'between assignments' again. Drew Carey and The Price Is Right can now rest easy, know that I'll be back with them, at least for a little while.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
How Much?!!
I was out Christmas shopping this afternoon, you know, poking around, seeing what's what and getting the lay of the land. No, I had absolutely no idea what I was looking for or where to even start looking, but I was out there, mixing it up with everybody else. I got a little hungry, and since I was in the holiday spirit, I decided to stop in at Baskin Robbins, where I have not been in years, literally. I got a single scoop of Quarterback Crunch on a pointy sugar cone, just like old times. I nearly had a heart attack when the guy told me it would be $2.50. But I had a hankerin' and forked over the cash anyway. Grudgingly.
Am I so out of touch that $2.50 for a freakin' ice cream cone sounds like highway robbery to me?
I mean, really... come on. I know you have to pay rent and pay your staff and carry insurance and whatever other crazy-ass add-ons California burdens small businesses with, but seriously... $2.50 for a single scoop sugar cone? I remember when it was like 50 cents, back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and cavemen had just invented fire and the ice cream freezer.
Maybe it's more of my pending old-man-ness showing, the cranky codger coming out in me, but Baskin Robbins must be doing pretty well if they think they can get away with charging that much for a few ounces of mediocre ice cream. They sure aren't going to get my return business, I know that much.
I'm almost afraid to go places I haven't been in a long time, because I have a feeling they'll all end up astonishingly overpriced and ruin my cherished memories. Like Stuckey's, do they even have those any more? With the pecan logs that used to be 25 cents? What's Dairy Queen charging for a Dilley Bar these days, ten bucks? Jeez, I feel like my grandfather, reminiscing about places gone for decades.
Is it 4:30 yet? I'm hungry for dinner.
Am I so out of touch that $2.50 for a freakin' ice cream cone sounds like highway robbery to me?
I mean, really... come on. I know you have to pay rent and pay your staff and carry insurance and whatever other crazy-ass add-ons California burdens small businesses with, but seriously... $2.50 for a single scoop sugar cone? I remember when it was like 50 cents, back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and cavemen had just invented fire and the ice cream freezer.
Maybe it's more of my pending old-man-ness showing, the cranky codger coming out in me, but Baskin Robbins must be doing pretty well if they think they can get away with charging that much for a few ounces of mediocre ice cream. They sure aren't going to get my return business, I know that much.
I'm almost afraid to go places I haven't been in a long time, because I have a feeling they'll all end up astonishingly overpriced and ruin my cherished memories. Like Stuckey's, do they even have those any more? With the pecan logs that used to be 25 cents? What's Dairy Queen charging for a Dilley Bar these days, ten bucks? Jeez, I feel like my grandfather, reminiscing about places gone for decades.
Is it 4:30 yet? I'm hungry for dinner.
Monday, December 6, 2010
If Life Were Like TV...
If life were like TV:
Every third criminal would be a serial killer.
Big fat loudmouth guys would always have thin hot wives.
Computers and databases would be lightning fast and always give the correct results.
Cell phones would never run out of battery power. Unless it would serve a dramatic purpose or let the cops catch the serial killer.
No one would ever go to the bathroom. Unless it would serve a dramatic purpose or let the cops catch the serial killer.
Blackout alcoholics would be clever and witty instead of mumbly and scary.
Gay men would always advertise themselves by being flamingly flamboyant.
People with Southern accents would always be ignorant and racist.
People with New York accents would always be pushy know-it-alls.
Okay, maybe that one's true.
Right before you left the living room for the kitchen, you'd have to take a dramatic pause to let the music cue you off.
Everything would have a happy ending after thirty minutes.
Every third criminal would be a serial killer.
Big fat loudmouth guys would always have thin hot wives.
Computers and databases would be lightning fast and always give the correct results.
Cell phones would never run out of battery power. Unless it would serve a dramatic purpose or let the cops catch the serial killer.
No one would ever go to the bathroom. Unless it would serve a dramatic purpose or let the cops catch the serial killer.
Blackout alcoholics would be clever and witty instead of mumbly and scary.
Gay men would always advertise themselves by being flamingly flamboyant.
People with Southern accents would always be ignorant and racist.
People with New York accents would always be pushy know-it-alls.
Okay, maybe that one's true.
Right before you left the living room for the kitchen, you'd have to take a dramatic pause to let the music cue you off.
Everything would have a happy ending after thirty minutes.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Losing Touch
I went up to my local Target today, in an unsuccessful attempt to find Christmas presents. There were TONS of people all over the store, which is a lesson for me not to go to Target on a Sunday afternoon. Much more importantly, though, I noticed something alarming, something that shook me to foundations of my identity.
They'd changed the shopping carts.
For as long as I can remember they've had the same carts, metal bases with plastic bodies that also lock up when you try to take them off premises. Which is why homeless people use carts from the 99cent store, they're easier to steal. But Target no longer has the old kind, the familiar kind, the kind I remember.
Now they have all-plastic carts, no more metal bases. The new carts are sleek and gray and red and just... wrong. It's kind of like shopping with the Jetsons, too streamlined and too modern.
I don't know why this change affects me. I mean, really, who cares? They changed the shopping carts, life goes on. But there's something else. They've made this Target the kind that sells groceries too. And I knew nothing about it. They didn't run the approval past me like they should have. Time was I went to this Target all the time, I worked across the street, but it's been months since I've been in, and in that time they've changed the layout of the store, and they now sell groceries, and they've changed the shopping carts.
Enough already. I thought I declared a moratorium on change a while back. Why is no one paying attention?
Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna close my eyes and count to twenty, which should be more than enough time for everybody to find out what they've changed in the past year and then change it back. Okay?
Here we go. One... Two... Three... Four... Five...
Are you changing things back? Good.
Six... Seven... Eight...
They'd changed the shopping carts.
For as long as I can remember they've had the same carts, metal bases with plastic bodies that also lock up when you try to take them off premises. Which is why homeless people use carts from the 99cent store, they're easier to steal. But Target no longer has the old kind, the familiar kind, the kind I remember.
Now they have all-plastic carts, no more metal bases. The new carts are sleek and gray and red and just... wrong. It's kind of like shopping with the Jetsons, too streamlined and too modern.
I don't know why this change affects me. I mean, really, who cares? They changed the shopping carts, life goes on. But there's something else. They've made this Target the kind that sells groceries too. And I knew nothing about it. They didn't run the approval past me like they should have. Time was I went to this Target all the time, I worked across the street, but it's been months since I've been in, and in that time they've changed the layout of the store, and they now sell groceries, and they've changed the shopping carts.
Enough already. I thought I declared a moratorium on change a while back. Why is no one paying attention?
Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna close my eyes and count to twenty, which should be more than enough time for everybody to find out what they've changed in the past year and then change it back. Okay?
Here we go. One... Two... Three... Four... Five...
Are you changing things back? Good.
Six... Seven... Eight...
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Fixing The Elevator
They're going to fix the elevator in my building.
Yes, FINALLY.
It's been almost a year since it last worked. I went back to Texas on December 18th last year, and when I got back on the 30th the elevator didn't go up or down any more.
The landlady put a sign on it that says something like 'down for maintenance' or some similar lie, which the elevator repairman said was good enough to keep the inspectors at bay. It was supposed to get fixed in April, then again in September, but neither happened, and I trudged up the stairs from the garage every day. Kind of grew used to it, to tell you the truth. But I wasn't happy about it.
How she got around ADA* compliance is beyond me, there is absolutely no way into the building that doesn't involve stairs, so if we had any residents in wheelchairs they would have been stuck down in the garage since December of last year. I imagine they'd have set up a tent city or something, a subterranean lair they could lurk in while they waited for the elevator be repaired 'any day now.'
Someone complained - not me, really - and the city or the State came calling. Seems it really isn't okay to leave a 'down for maintenance' sign on an elevator for months while you have absolutely no intention of fixing it. Who knew?
So now it's under repair, and will be for several more weeks. I can't wait. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, actually, when it's working again. I don't even remember what the inside looks like. Maybe it's like a palace, with fountains and marble stairs and wandering peacocks.
I can only dream...
* Americans with Disabilities Act - passed, let us remember in 1991, almost 20 years ago.
Yes, FINALLY.
It's been almost a year since it last worked. I went back to Texas on December 18th last year, and when I got back on the 30th the elevator didn't go up or down any more.
The landlady put a sign on it that says something like 'down for maintenance' or some similar lie, which the elevator repairman said was good enough to keep the inspectors at bay. It was supposed to get fixed in April, then again in September, but neither happened, and I trudged up the stairs from the garage every day. Kind of grew used to it, to tell you the truth. But I wasn't happy about it.
How she got around ADA* compliance is beyond me, there is absolutely no way into the building that doesn't involve stairs, so if we had any residents in wheelchairs they would have been stuck down in the garage since December of last year. I imagine they'd have set up a tent city or something, a subterranean lair they could lurk in while they waited for the elevator be repaired 'any day now.'
Someone complained - not me, really - and the city or the State came calling. Seems it really isn't okay to leave a 'down for maintenance' sign on an elevator for months while you have absolutely no intention of fixing it. Who knew?
So now it's under repair, and will be for several more weeks. I can't wait. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, actually, when it's working again. I don't even remember what the inside looks like. Maybe it's like a palace, with fountains and marble stairs and wandering peacocks.
I can only dream...
* Americans with Disabilities Act - passed, let us remember in 1991, almost 20 years ago.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Picture Of Goober-ness
I saw a picture of myself today, one taken a year or more ago. I was laughing unreservedly, having a great time, probably oblivious to the camera.
Jeez, what a dork.
Really, I looked like I was drunk, and I don't drink alcohol. It was long enough ago that I don't remember the circumstances around the photo, but it is undeniably me, and I am undeniably dorky.
Modern cameras are marvels of engineering, they can focus on multiple spots, adjust the shutter speed and aperture automatically, flash or not flash as you wish, and even become movie cameras if you want them to.
So why don't they have a dork filter? Just a little switch, maybe another setting on the dial that's already there, to keep the camera from working if someone in the field of view looks like an idiot. If their teeth were bucked out, if they were squinting like they ate a lemon, if their tongue were not only sticking out but discolored... not that I looked anything like that, I assure you. I'm just saying, if the camera were programmed not to take pictures of people like that, it sure would have saved me a lot of embarrassment.
There's gotta be someone from MIT working on this. And if there isn't there will be after they read this.
Jeez, what a dork.
Really, I looked like I was drunk, and I don't drink alcohol. It was long enough ago that I don't remember the circumstances around the photo, but it is undeniably me, and I am undeniably dorky.
Modern cameras are marvels of engineering, they can focus on multiple spots, adjust the shutter speed and aperture automatically, flash or not flash as you wish, and even become movie cameras if you want them to.
So why don't they have a dork filter? Just a little switch, maybe another setting on the dial that's already there, to keep the camera from working if someone in the field of view looks like an idiot. If their teeth were bucked out, if they were squinting like they ate a lemon, if their tongue were not only sticking out but discolored... not that I looked anything like that, I assure you. I'm just saying, if the camera were programmed not to take pictures of people like that, it sure would have saved me a lot of embarrassment.
There's gotta be someone from MIT working on this. And if there isn't there will be after they read this.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
One Year Ago
A year ago today my father died. I was at his side as the nurse turned off the machine supplying him with medicine to keep his blood pressure up. I held his hand as the numbers slowly ticked down and he slowly slipped away. It was excruciating and terrible and sad, but I would not trade that last hour with him for anything. The time I spent with my hand in his waiting for the inevitable end was precious, a gem that only three of us share, me, my sister and my mother.
If you have lost a parent you know exactly how I feel today. If you still have both your parents there's nothing I can say that would explain precisely the feeling of being alone, on your own, without the security blanket of one of the people put on this planet to take care of you. It's scary and liberating and incomprehensible all at the same time. My father was such a huge presence in my life that even now, a year later, there's a huge hole in my life where he used to be.
So here's to my father, Donald Jacob Hartshorn, Jr. and everything he was and everything he taught me to be. I hope I can live up to what he expected of me.
I still miss you, Dad.
If you have lost a parent you know exactly how I feel today. If you still have both your parents there's nothing I can say that would explain precisely the feeling of being alone, on your own, without the security blanket of one of the people put on this planet to take care of you. It's scary and liberating and incomprehensible all at the same time. My father was such a huge presence in my life that even now, a year later, there's a huge hole in my life where he used to be.
So here's to my father, Donald Jacob Hartshorn, Jr. and everything he was and everything he taught me to be. I hope I can live up to what he expected of me.
I still miss you, Dad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
